Long Roads Ahead
by justalittledazed
Summary: Childhood Friend AU. Sherlock is having problems socializing until he meets John. How will the two grow up together? Rated T for possible future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sat on the swing, moving slowly, feet scraping the dirt under him. He could hear the hooting laughter of the other children around him, but he wasn't interested. At least, that was what he told himself anyway. Recess was never a fun thing for the tiny Holmes boy, not like it was for everyone else. Sherlock wasn't very good at making friends, preferring to stay alone with a book or something to examine. He hadn't made any friends during his first few months of school, and his mum constantly fussed and worried over him.

Sherlock's sharp tongue often got him into trouble in the classroom, with both his peers as well as the teachers. The other children picked on him for the way he talked and looked and dressed. They judged the things he liked, the way he stood up too straight when he walked. And every mean word or shove in the hall stuck with Sherlock, creating a shell that he wore around himself. He could pretend it didn't bother him, but deep down it did. He spent many sleepless nights wondering if he could possibly be like the other children someday, or if he would be stuck in this phase: on the cusp of unwanted and unimportant.

He knew he was different, special. The teachers tried to cater to his level, to keep him occupied, but it wasn't successful, and he was eventually moved up a year in a hope to quell his thirst for a challenge. He had enjoyed his first day so far, finding that he was still the most intelligent person in the room most times, but it was bareable in this weren't any people like Anderson, a in his old class, and he could actually deal with being around his new classmates.

He told himself that things would be different now, tried to tell himself something new would come around; and something new did come around, in the form of a blonde little boy in a cream colored jumper. He took the swing beside Sherlock, pushing off and kicking himself high into the air.

"John" the teacher warns "Don't swing too high"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson" John says with a grin, stopping the swing with his feet. He swings for a bit before turning to Sherlock.

"Hi" he says, and Sherlock glances around to make sure he really was talking to him "I'm John Watson."

"Hello" Sherlock replies cooly "Sherlock Holmes"

"You don't look like your havin' much fun" John points out, and Sherlock glances up to look at him fully.

John was short, pale, with shaggy blonde hair and a front tooth missing. He doesn't answer the boy, just returns his attention to watching the toe of his shoe scrape into the dust under the swing.

"Wanna play with me?" John asks "We can play cops"

Sherlock looks at him for a while, quiet and calculating. Then he nods, taking the boy's extended hand and running across the playground to the grassy area at the back.


	2. Chapter 2: Summertime

Sherlock found himself seeking John out often, and John allowed it. He even seemed to enjoy the time with Sherlock, crouched behind playground equipment and running in between the other students. It wasn't that John had no other friends either, John was quite popular with the other students. John truthfully liked Sherlock, enjoyed being with fact never seemed to baffle the dark haired boy, especially after he left the solace of recess with John to return to his classroom. Once that brief period of time was over, Sherlock was thrust back into the place where he was a freak and only a freak. He spent the time in his classroom huddled in the back of the room by himself, working quietly on his maths or reading while the rest of his classmates asked questions and talked with boundless energy. His only companion during his time in class was a quiet, mousy girl. She made him uneasy, he wasn't quite sure how to talk to her, but she looked at him like he held the moon and the stars in his hands. He liked that about Molly Hooper, but he didn't dare show that he did. He couldn't, couldn't make friends, couldn't care. The universe had a twisted way of turning the things he cared about into a weapon to be used against him.

His class held so many different types of children, the daft and unintelligent, the sharp and witty, and the loyal. But each group was filled to the brim with different kinds of kids, each with lives and stories and histories that Sherlock wanted to know. He wanted to know, but he didn't want to ask. So he learned how to see, to observe and collect data from the children like rats in a lab. That's all it was, a way to sate his curiosity, to learn and to know. By the end of the year he could tell in a glance: alcoholic parent, raised by a single mother, orphaned, loved, spoiled, moving away. He could easily pick them apart, but it wasn't enough. He had to be patient, to wait for the skills to grow.

Where did he fit into those default groups? He certainly was witty, his tongue was sharp and biting as he tore down the masks and wall that people hung high to cover their true identities. He sees. He sees the true flesh and bone behind the smiling children that act like they can soar, that they won't get broken on the crashing way down. But was he loyal? Did he dedicate himself to the people he cared about? Was there anything he really cared about? He sighs, running a hand through his unruly curls. He was a child still, he knew that. He supposed he could find where his loyalties would lie when he got older. For right now, it was time for recess.

His shiny black dress shoes beat against the concrete, carrying him to their meeting place. They'd met at the same place for the past two year It was the last day, and the promise of summer hung in the sky like a cloud of thick humidity. The sun was bright, hot, tinging the skin red, drawing the moisture from the skin to fall in beads over the brows of the children as they ran around in droves. Sherlock finds John, all shaggy blonde hair and pale skin. He smiles at Sherlock, waving him over. Sherlock follows where John leads, to the farthest corner of the playground. He smiles as they transition from the pavement to the soft grass, falling into it and lounging in the shade with John. They lay sprawled out on their backs, heads together, talking quietly as Sherlock catalogs every leaf and branch on the sprawling maple above them.

"My sister says she'll take me to the park on Tuesdays if you wanna play" John says with a grin, turning his head to look at his best friend. Sherlock smiles, turning to look at John too.

"I'll have Mycroft take me. Maybe Harry and Myc can be friends too" he smiles. John laughs.

"Harry doesn't really like anyone" he smiles

"Neither does Mycroft" Sherlock argues, and John shrugs

"Maybe they could be friends." he whispers and looks up at the tree, trying to figure out what had interested Sherlock so much. Sherlock points to a broken branch, just above them.

"A squirrel overestimated the strength of the branch" he says with a grin. John giggles, putting his hand over his mouth.

"How d'ya know that?" John asks, squinting at the cracked branch, Sherlock shrugs.

"I've been working on seeing more than most people" he says simply. John turns to look at Sherlock, staring for a bit.

"What?" the dark haired boy asks, and John gives him a toothy smile.

"You're really awesome" the blonde states simply, reaching out and tucking Sherlock's hand in his own.


	3. Chapter 3

The years hit them steadily, Sherlock grew long and spindly while John, ever envious of his friend's growth, remained a steady height even as puberty began to hang over his head. They were still just children, but with something different underneath it. Sherlock's mind became an open place, surpassing anything his classmates or even some of his teachers had obtained. John was no longer the little boy with the missing tooth that swung too high on the playground, he was steadily transforming into a man with a thirst for adventure and experiences. He hung a map of the world on his bedroom wall and would sit and watch it, occasionally pointing and mumbling "there, I want to go there". He knew there were places to see and things to do, besides sit at a desk all day and do schoolwork. But while John had an intense craving for faraway places and daring adventures, he was still patient to a fault. He was completely willing to allow time to take him to the places he wanted to go, in no rush to force things. He trusted in himself as well as in fate, knowing that adventure was still a long way off.

Sherlock was the complete opposite end of the spectrum from his companion; he had no intention of hanging posters to his wall and daydreaming. Sherlock was action, not patience with time. He could often be found hunched over a new book or an experiment, focusing on his intellect rather than waiting for fate to take him to his next goal. He became immersed in science and education, and, while John would often tag along to soak up as much of the intelligence as he possibly could, he never thought of himself as less than the brilliant boy's equal. Sherlock never treated John any differently than he treated everyone else in his life and John respected him for this, knowing that it was not Sherlock's way to be overly friendly to others.

He found Sherlock in the library down the road every day after class let out, pouring over the material he had chosen to study that time. John would sit with him for hours, working on homework or reading something himself. It was quiet, peaceful, and occasionally Sherlock would glance up at his friend and start, as if he wasn't used to someone being around. Sometimes, he would bounce ideas and facts off of John, none of which the blond ever forgot. He took every word that came from the young Sherlock Holmes as gospel, and Sherlock frequently did the same for John. Afterward, Sherlock would snap the book shut and dart out, leaving John to follow him. And follow John did, making sure that Sherlock didn't do anything reckless.

It was a sunny afternoon and Sherlock was immersed in a diagram depicting the life cycle of house flies. The thirteen year old looks at the clock and frowns. It wasn't often John didn't show up, even on weekends like this. He glances at the door, trying not to feel upset because the boy wasn't there. John walks in, sitting in front of Sherlock and dropping his head into his hands.

"Something happened," Sherlock says, putting the book down and propping his chin on his hands.

"Harry came out last night," John mutters, running a hand through his hair.

"You already knew of her orientation, so it's not the fact that she came out that has you shaken. Your parents reacted badly," Sherlock says, his voice softer than usual. John nods, rubbing his eyes. He hadn't slept that night.

"They kicked her out," he mutters, pressing the heels of his hand into his cheekbones. "Told her not to come back."

Sherlock frowns deeply, fingers reaching out to stroke John's wrist in a futile attempt at consoling him.

John lets out a strangled sob, no tears coming out but breath coming in shallow gasps. Sherlock's eyes widen but he doesn't say anything, doesn't know how.

"Can I tell you something, Johnny?" Harriet asks, climbing into his bed. Her shirt is too big, falling over her knees. Her short blonde hair was pulled up into a stubby little ponytail.

"Of course, Harry," John says, scooting over to make room and putting the book he was reading aside.

"Promise you won't tell mom and dad?" she asks, eyeing him.

"Promise," John says, leaning in so that Harry can whisper to him.

"You know that girl I hang out with? Clara?" she asks with a smile. John nods, remembering the pretty girl with the dark curls and eyes.

"She kissed me the other day," Harry says with a squeal "I really like her, John!"

John smiles at Harry.

"She's very pretty," he says. "You guys make a nice couple."

Harry hugs him tight, and he pats her on the back.

"I love you, Johnnyboy," the seventeen year old says, and John smiles wider.

"Love you too, Harry," he says, and she slips out of his bedroom and across the hall to her own.

John smiles at the memory, barely registering Sherlock stand up and offer him his hand. He takes it, walking out of the library and into the warm sun before taking off on foot down the crowded London streets. They stop in an alley, snorting and hooting with laughter.

"Thanks," he says simply, not letting go of Sherlock's hand.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes often could not come to concerts or plays. Instead, right in the front row of every violin performance or science fair, was John, Harry, and Mycroft. Gradually, they added Clara and a boy named Greg to the mix, each of them sitting dutifully in the crowd and cheering for the raven-haired boy. Clara, instantly attached to Sherlock and John like a mother hen, snapped pictures at any moment she could while Harry grinned at her. At the end, after the last note had echoed through the silent auditorium or the last puff of smoke had faded into the air, they would find him and tackle him. Mycroft would give him a curt nod, Greg would ruffle his hair, and John would smile. They all go out afterward, for dinner or ice cream. They fall into a comfortable pattern of teasing, where Greg and Mycroft make stabs at the other's major, Harry tells stories about John as a baby while Clara laughs politely behind her hand, and Sherlock watches it all with evident interest, soaking it in like it's oxygen. Then they go their separate ways. Mycroft takes Sherlock home before heading back to university with Greg, Harry and Clara send John home and travel back to the small flat they share a few streets away.

John stays with his sister and Clara often and sometimes he brings Sherlock along. It's a day like that when they're sitting on the floor of the flat, laughing as Clara talks about her job at a newspaper when they realize something is off about the two women. Harry heads to bed early, kissing John on the forehead and Clara on the cheek before closing the bedroom door. Clara stares at her feet, which are bare and folded under her.

"What's wrong, Clara?" John asks, moving up to the sofa beside the woman. Sherlock excuses himself, going to the bathroom to get ready.

"She's been drinking, John," Clara mutters. "I don't know why and I don't know how she's getting it, but she won't stop."

Tears fall over her eyes and John wraps an arm around the woman, holding her while he tries to wrap his mind around it.

"We'll help her, Clar." He says quietly "It's just going to take time."

Clara nods and leans over John, kissing his forehead.

"You're a great kid, John," she says with a smile.

"Thanks, Clara. You're pretty fantastic yourself, my sister is lucky to have you," he replies, smiling at her. Clara nods, leaving to join Harry in the bedroom. John lets out a ragged breath, running a hand through his hair.

Sherlock wanders back in wearing a white t-shirt and plaid trousers. His eyes are wide and bright, suggesting that he won't actually be sleeping for a while. He sits beside John on the couch, leaning against the shorter boy slightly. John smiles, letting him.

"What's up, 'Lock?" John asks, quietly. Sherlock shrugs. John turns the channel, putting on a programme he knows Sherlock likes, even though the man denies it. He rolls his eyes, snuggling against John, and John can't help the way his heart flips in his chest.

Clara finds the boys early that morning, sprawled out on the couch. John's head is tilted back into the cushion, one arm draped over the armrest, the other curled protectively around Sherlock. Sherlock was sprawled over John's legs, head and shoulders resting on the boy's lap and his body curled tightly into the fetal position. Clara smiles, tugging her tight, springy curls into a bun and going into the kitchen to fix them breakfast. Harriet joins her in the kitchen, wrapping her arms around her middle and kissing her neck. Clara giggles, relaxing into her girlfriend's touch.

"Good morning," Harry mutters, lips still pressed to Clara's caramel-colored skin.

"Morning, love."

Clara sighs, flipping a pancake.

"What's wrong?" Harry asks, turning Clara around. Clara locks eyes with her.

"You smell of liquor already," Clara mutters, turning away. Harry sputters, turning to come face-to-face with her brother and Sherlock.

"Harry," John says, quietly. "What's going on with you?"

The woman turns, storming out of the flat and slamming the door behind her.

"No no no" Sherlock sighs, running a hand through his dark curls in exasperation. "You're an idiot. Of course it's not the maid."

Greg laughs, finishing up his statement.

"You were right, Sherlock," Mycroft says, frowning. "How in the world did you get so good at this?"

Sherlock chuckles to himself, rolling his eyes.

"Just am."

"I think he's cheating," a girl named Sally says, crossing her arms "There's no way he could just know that."

Sherlock groans.

"It's obvious to anyone who can observe what is happening. The whole premise of the game is that you're given clues to who the killer is." he says

"It's only halfway through the game. We don't have enough clues!" she argues.

"I eliminated the obvious," he says, leaning back in his chair.

A boy named Anderson snorts, typing a text out, and Sally smacks him with the back of her hand. Greg laughs, biting down on his lip.

"I think you need to take Sherlock home before he totally schools Sally," Greg says, and Mycroft nods, leading the boy out while Sally and Anderson bicker back and forth.  
"I wonder if his girlfriend knows he's cheating on her," Sherlock mutters, eyes narrowing.

Mycroft scrubs a hand over his brow, sighing.

"Get in the car, Sherlock."

"Okay, but I'm going to John's tonight," the boy says, grinning to himself.

Mycroft lets out another long-suffering sigh, packing Sherlock into a taxi.


End file.
